


This Great London

by EllenFremedon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 09:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenFremedon/pseuds/EllenFremedon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The City of London is a city with secrets. John Watson has secrets of his own."</p><p>When John Watson opens the door and finds London literally on his doorstep, how can he set things to rights? What on earth is he going to tell Sherlock and Greg? And what has the London Stone got to do with anything?</p><p>Birthday gift for teacup_of_doom. Read her fic "Master of London" first or you'll have no idea what is going on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Great London

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teacup_of_doom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacup_of_doom/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Master of London](https://archiveofourown.org/works/587437) by [teacup_of_doom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacup_of_doom/pseuds/teacup_of_doom). 



> Happy Birthday, dear teacup_of_doom! I hope you enjoy the story! It has got away from me a bit, and so will be longer than expected. Thank you for letting me play in the MoL world! I should also mention that I was also inspired by the Doctor Who episode "The Doctor's Wife" by Neil Gaiman.

### Chapter One: The London Stone

"So long as the Stone of Brutus is safe, so long shall London flourish"  
― The Rev. Richard Williams Morgan

  
The city of London gleamed. She dazzled and she glittered. She was ancient and young, ever changing, ever the same, and she watched out for her own. Those who needed and loved her, she aided and loved in return - which was why she came to be standing outside 221B Baker Street at nine o'clock at night, ringing the bell. But, you might say, a city cannot stand outside of a building... especially a building which stands _in_ said city, let alone ring the bell. Generally I would agree, but this was a very peculiar situation, and one for which there was no precedent to be followed.

~*~

John Watson was in a foul mood. The day had been horrible from beginning to end. He'd woken up in the middle of the night, jolted awake by the desperate scream that had disturbed his dreams. He thought it had been his name, but the house was quiet, and London itself seemed to sleep. He'd fallen asleep again, but from the moment he woke up in the morning, he had been dogged by the nagging feeling that something was not quite right. Just what it was, he couldn't say, but the feeling had turned into a raging headache. Said headache was now being exacerbated by the ringing of the doorbell.  


The bell went off again, and John got to his feet, tossing aside his newspaper, and casting a cross glance at Sherlock, who though already standing by the window, and who, clearly having heard the door, made no movement to go answer it. Muttering under his breath about annoying detective flatmates, he reached the hall and opened the door. His first impression of the young woman on the other side was that she was young and pretty, and maybe a little bit... odd. She had long, very long, dark hair, and was wearing a scarf patterned with the lines of the London Underground wrapped around her head. Her grey wool coat was old fashioned with a rather Victorian flavour to it, complete with half cape and high collar.  


"Ah" he said, clearing his throat and standing a little straighter, "Hi, can I help you?" She gave him a beaming smile and held out her hand to him. "It's me, John," she said, and smiled up at him as if they had known each other all their lives. "Are you certain we've met? Because I think I would remember you if we had." He briefly thought about the nutters who sometimes followed him around, looking for an excuse to speak to him, maybe that's who she was, but he dismissed the thought, she was truly very pretty.  


"Can I come in?" She asked, and John realised that he had been both staring at her, and making her stand out in the cold. "Of course, yes. Sorry. Do come in!" He managed, stepping aside to let her enter, and it was then that he was able to identify that nagging feeling at the back of his head. London was silent. Completely, utterly, terrifyingly silent. The woman turned towards him in the narrow hall, and he realised with a start that her blue-green eyes were ancient in her youthful face. "Who _are_ you?" he asked again. "I'm London" she said. She may as well have added "stupid," it was thick in her voice. "Oh, of course you are. I - _what_ did you say?" John gaped at her as the meaning of her words reached him. You could have knocked him over with a feather. "I am London, John. And I need your - well Sherlock's and your - help. Greg's too, I expect." Between the shock of the city's absence in his head, and the startling pronouncement of the woman before him, John felt like his head was reeling. "Is he in?" She asked, motioning up the stairs. "Sh-Sherlock?" John stuttered. London nodded. "Yes, he's upstairs, and probably half mad with curiosity right now, the git." She smiled again, and John led her up the stairs.  


Sherlock turned from the window as they entered the living room, his eyes rapidly taking London in, John could practically _hear_ the mental deductions firing away inside his head. "Sherlock, this is...uh" John looked at the woman beside him in bafflement, he couldn't very well say 'Sherlock, this is London, literally, London' and his mind had suddenly gone blank. "I'm Lo...Tory Battersea" London... Tory, said with a smile, offering Sherlock her hand as he came over to greet her. She was quick, but not quick enough to divert his attention away from her near misstep, however. "Pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Holmes" she added. "Indeed. Can I get you something to drink, John, some tea perhaps?" John watched with some surprise as Sherlock performed his I'm-being-charming-so-that-you-will-talk act. "Tea would be lovely, thanks" Tory said, and John, rolling his eyes at Sherlock's behaviour, went to put the kettle on.  


"Tory's not your real name, is it?" Sherlock demanded. "Please, make yourself comfortable" he gestured at the seats by the fire.  
"Oh," she faltered, "Thank you. No, no it's not - not technically anyway. It's short for my middle name..." She unwrapped her scarf and removed her coat, laying both across the back of John's chair. "Victoria?" Sherlock guessed. She nodded. "And your first name?" Listening from the kitchen, John felt increasingly more uncomfortable about the direction of this conversation. "Chelsea." It was supposed to be a statement, but even to John it sounded more like a question. Sherlock was never going to believe this, and he didn't really want to have to explain about London to him just yet. "Chelsea Victoria Battersea?" Looking over from the stove, John saw Sherlock raise a sceptical eyebrow and as he studied her over his steepled fingers. He took in the dark hair loose down her back, the burgundy dress, that had a vaguely medieval quality to it, the absence of jewellery, and what ever else it was that only Sherlock observed. Fortunately the conversation was arrested by the sound of the front door opening, and a set of hasty footsteps bounding up the stairs. John made it to the living room door in time to see several things happen at once. Detective Inspector Lestrade practically bolted into the room, Sherlock turned to look at him, as did Tory, but while Sherlock's expression was merely inquisitive, Tory's was almost reverent.  


"What's happened?" Sherlock asked, the moment Lestrade was in the door. "What do you know about the London Stone?" Greg asked, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Ancient stone now housed in Cannon Street, first mentioned in some Old English books, 'So long as the Stone of Brutus is safe, so long shall London flourish,' and all that." Sherlock rattled off, "Why? What about it?" "Yes, that one -" Lestrade began. "It's been stolen." The three men turned to look at Tory in surprise. Even in the ruddy, flickering light of the fire in the fireplace, she was very still and very pale. "It's been stolen and it must be found, or London will be silenced forever." A thrill of fear shot up John's spine. Tory glided forward to stand before the astounded detective inspector. Her face was grave, and all signs of her earlier smiles gone without a trace. "Sherlock, what the hell is going on? Who is this?" Lestrade demanded, his eyes still on the girl before him. But it was not Sherlock who answered, It was Tory.  


"I am London, and the Stone must be restored."


End file.
